Robert B. Parker’s the Hangman’s Sonnet

54

Jesse watched Selko drive his dinged and dented old Camry away, the car’s rear bumper held on by duct tape and a prayer. They say people’s dogs are a reflection of their owners. Jesse didn’t know if Selko had a dog, but it seemed to him that the reporter’s car was a pretty accurate reflection of its owner: beat up, ruffled, but persistent. Jesse thought about heading straight home, but that was no longer a viable option. Selko was right, no matter what, this was about to turn into a mess and he had what remained of the night plus twenty-four hours before the crap hit the fan. After that Paradise would become a circus and a zoo all rolled into one.

Nita Thompson lived in a condo development at the edge of the Swap, a place Jesse had thought about moving to if he could ever sell his house. The development was tastefully done, the architecture blending in perfectly with the older houses surrounding it. Getting this development built had been one of the mayor’s pet projects. She understood that as Bostonians continued to move into Paradise and commute, that there would be a need to expand available housing and develop the Swap, while maintaining the town’s quaint seaside appeal.

He’d thought about calling Nita to give her the news or at least to let her know he was coming, but decided against it. He wanted to catch her off guard. He wanted to be able to read her reactions without giving her time to prepare. Maybe that wasn’t it at all. If he was being honest with himself, he had to admit he was more than a little curious about her, about how her attitude toward him had seemed to shift before his eyes.

“Jesse!” she said, real surprise in her voice. “What are you doing here?”

She was dressed in a faded Harvard T-shirt, running shorts, and black tennis socks. Her long, shapely legs were lightly tanned and looked lovely freed of the business suit slacks and skirts she always wore. Her shimmery, dark brown hair, which was usually pulled tightly to her scalp and done in a small bun atop her head or tied back in a neat ponytail, fell around her angular face to just above her shoulders. She was makeup-less and looked about ready for bed.

“There’s something I need to discuss with you,” he said.

“That’s what phones are for.”

She wasn’t smiling, but Jesse couldn’t decide whether that was because she just didn’t want him there or because there was someone else already at her apartment.

“Am I interrupting?” he asked.

“Just my attempt to get some sleep.”

“Sorry, but it’s something we need to discuss face-to-face.”

“Couldn’t it wait until morning?”

“If it could have, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Come on in,” she said, frowning.

The apartment looked like an IKEA showroom and lacked a sense of home. In spite of himself, Jesse felt sad for Nita. Even his crappy minor-league apartments had more personality than this place. There was a lack of permanence to the atmosphere: a place where someone lived, but not anyone in particular.

“Scotch?” she asked. “I’m having one. Dewar’s okay? It’s all I’ve got.”

“Sure. Rocks and soda, if that’s okay?”

Less than a minute later, Jesse had his drink and Nita had hers. They were seated across from each other, Nita on a red leather chair and Jesse on a gray fabric couch. They raised their glasses to each other and sipped.

“So, what’s the current emergency?”

Jesse explained the deal he’d made with Selko. About the photo of the index card and the note.

“We knew it would come out eventually. You can explain the rest away, can’t you?”

“Uh-huh. I can always say it was a way to weed through the people who confess to any crime and to ensure we had the right suspect when we caught him.”

“That’ll play. You may take some hits, but I think I can even get the mayor to defend you on this.”

“I’m not worried about taking hits in the press. Cops are everybody’s favorite targets. But the index card where Curnutt’s body was found, that’s the least of it.”

Thompson made a face, her eyes suddenly wary. “You never struck me as a man who enjoyed talking in riddles, Jesse. Why start now?”

He took a copy of the note Selko had shown him and handed it to Nita.

“So,” she said when she was done.

“Did you see how the note was signed?”

“Yes, I see the note is signed ‘The Hangman.’ So what? Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“Do you believe in coincidences?” Jesse asked, not waiting for an answer. “I don’t like coincidences.”

“More riddles. Look, Jesse, it’s not that I don’t appreciate your company, but it’s late. I’m beat. If I’m missing something, just tell me.”

“Terry Jester.”

“I know, I know,” Nita said, her voice thick with impatience. “They’re having a big birthday bash for him here next month. I’m the one who told the mayor she should make the most out of it.”

“You don’t know about The Hangman’s Sonnet?”

“The only sonnet I’m familiar with begins, ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day.’”

“The Hangman’s Sonnet was a Terry Jester record.”

“Record!” She laughed at him. “Next thing you know, you’ll be telling me about dial phones and cassette tapes. Jeez, my parents were kids when Terry Jester was a star.”

Jesse shook his empty glass at Nita. “Pour us another. I’ve got a story to tell you.”